


Victor Trevor, son of a gun

by ShannonXL



Series: Shit My Sherlock Does [13]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AFAB, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femlock, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Other, Queer Het, Transmasculine, Underage Sex, assigned female at birth, genderqueer Victor Trevor, girl!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Trevor stopped answering to Victoria at the age of 9.</p><p>He's a Rhodes scholar, a revolutionary, and a gentle womanizer. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes doesn't have many friends. Victor makes sure that she has him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victor Trevor, son of a gun

 

 

Victor Trevor was queer, and he didn’t care who knew.

Victor Trevor wore suits when he wanted to, and dresses when she wanted to. He preferred the Windsor knot most days, and she had a few flavors of pink lipgloss for the other days. Flavors like sugar pie and butter-me-up. Sometimes, Victor combined the two, and dared people to guess. 

Victor answered to the name Victoria until he was nine years old. The name didn’t fit anymore, it suited him much better with two vowels shaved off. He borrowed blazers and trousers from a friend, and found he liked the way he looked in them. Then he stole a kiss from the lips of the friend, and it felt good, knowing that his first kiss was stolen. It made him feel wild. 

Nine years old, he was pleased at the affect that his “coming out” had on those around him. Victor didn’t feel as if he’d ever been “in”, but he smirked like this shift in identity was another one of his private jokes. _Here I am_ , he said to himself. _All this time, you thought you were talking to a little girl_. It was a gleeful kind of prank. _I had us all fooled, didn’t I_? That’s what it takes, to pull off a real con. The con man has to believe his own story. 

Victor’s father hugged him and told him it was all right, anything, and then left him to his own devices. His teachers were flummoxed, and Victor found he didn’t care. The other students thought it was a lark. Their parents thought it was a scandal. The household staff treated him with the same polite, detached reverence they always had, only now with the added benefit of whispers when they thought no one was listening. It made people curious. It made people reveal themselves, the way they really were. So efficient. The more someone cared, the more grotesque their reaction, the easier it was for Victor to dispose of them. 

Victor felt like he’d pulled off the most brilliant con for the first nine years of his life. A junior cross dresser. It made him feel powerful. And some days, it made him feel powerful to play that way again. To wear a skirt and kitten heels and fuck girls like the proud cad he always would be. 

 

His mother was gone. 

 

Victor lost his virginity at boarding school. He was fifteen years old. It had taken some doing, finding a boarding school that was coed, and would let him wear pants most of the time. Typical New England problem. He proudly declared that he was asking for it. There was a boy on the lacrosse team, with broad shoulders and soft-smelling hair and beautiful brown eyes. Fourteen years old, almost fifteen, a lifelong athlete and strong with it. Victor guided this boy’s fourteen-almost-fifteen face in-between his legs and instructed him through one and a half orgasms. _Your tongue, yes, circles, start small, just like- ah!_ It was pleasant. It was more than pleasant. It felt grown up and carnal in a way Victor liked. And after, it only felt polite to reciprocate, so Victor gave the boy a hand job, and tasted the word _conquest_ on the back of his tongue. 

 

Victor was arrested in New York, just shy of his eighteenth birthday. He was placed in a cell with the girls, and he flirted with them until it was time to make his phone call. 

His father was on the line, and he sounded tired, and far away, and what country was it today? Dubai? London? Victor didn’t keep track. 

“Son,” and it thrilled Victor to hear that word first. _Don’t you know they’ve made a mistake? And isn’t it a_ funny _mistake_?

“I was exercising my Constitutional right to protest.”

There was a groan on the line.

“How much is your Constitutional right going to cost me?”

Victor winked at the cop listening in. Victor considered himself an equal-opportunity radical, and he wasn’t confident he could convince the cop to take it up the ass, but wouldn’t it be a lark to try…

“Depends.” Victor hummed. “They’ll hold us overnight, but the charges won’t stick. There’ll probably be a hundred-dollar fine. I’m good for it.”

“Victor,” his father’s voice rumbled.

“Well. The last time my face was in the paper you didn’t _tell_ me how much you paid to make it go away. And it’s already trending on Twitter- you do know what Twitter is, don’t you? I know it’s new, but-”

“Victor.” He could hear his father scratching his head, like he did every time his son did something he didn’t understand. “Just be safe. All right? I just want to know that you’re safe.”

“I know dad.” Victor stood up a little taller. “I am. Don’t worry.” And then he _smirked_. “They didn’t confiscate all my condoms, perish the thought!”

His father hung up. 

 

“I’m a poet at heart darling, but I’ve got no talent. So I’ve taken to eating out poets. Come home with me.”

Victor was not at all ashamed of how well that worked. 

 

Sherlock found Victor and they got along like a house on fire. Sherlock was brash and impulsive and daring in all the ways that Victor adored. Victor was clever and delighted by everything erraticand where other people got insulted, Victor _laughed_. Yes. They were very much like a house fire. Dangerous and brilliant and prone to serious property damage if left unattended. 

While Victor was yarn-bombing the Headmaster’s office, Sherlock was raiding the chemistry lab. Sherlock brewed laminal and Victor painted the quad, and while the maintenance staff was distracted by the rainbow of yarn, they commandeered the street lights to reveal their handiwork at inopportune moments. 

They hid a human skull in the locker of the boy prone to harassing girls in bars late at night. 

They set off fireworks on the Fourth of July, an American holiday, but Sherlock appreciated it. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she whispered in between whiskey-soaked kisses underneath the sparkling, explosion-bright sky. 

Sherlock was one of the few people Victor wanted to fuck more than once. 

Victor didn’t often go for seconds. He had a reputation to uphold. Most of the time, the novelty of another human being only interested Victor for the length of his arousal. He thought of romance in terms of erectile dysfunction commercials: effects should not last more than four hours. And Sherlock was not… Victor loves Sherlock, of course. Sherlock was the most incredible friend. She was dexterous, but certainly not the best of Victor’s conquests. Sherlock had an unrefined quality to her. Not a keeper, but worth revisiting now and again. 

Victor liked the way she tasted. 

 

Sherlock enjoyed seeing Victor cross dress. It made her tongue do odd things in her mouth. 

“You have lovely calves.”

 

Victor fed them to her later, one inch at a time. Sherlock kissed his skin, mapping him with her mouth, hot and open wide.

 

Victor was the son of a wealthy man, and Victor inherited the empire. The crown passed with too much fanfare. First, his stepfather’s murder, bloody and gruesome and almost too much for Sherlock Holmes to solve. Then his father. Cancer. Victor hated that the monarchy ended in such a mundane tragedy. And he missed having someone to call. 

He wore his father’s mantle because he was very, very good. At everything. He’d been a Rhodes scholar. Clever. He made sure great things rose from his father’s bitter ashes. He wore dapper suits and issued commands, and fucked pretty women and dreamed about the days when one could fuck one’s secretary and drink scotch in the afternoons and smoke without concern for one’s health. But he settled for the modern age. 

 


End file.
